Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  As he shuttled between the factory and the ramparts where the scorpions were being set up, Ziani felt like a newly-wed wife getting ready to entertain her in-laws to dinner for the first time. He wanted everything to be perfect for the Mezentines when they arrived. Every scorpion had to be aligned exactly in its cradle and zeroed at each of the set distances, the dampening struts clamped down tight, the sliders and locks greased, every nut and wedge retightened after twenty trial shots. He had a team of four hundred volunteers doing nothing all day but retrieving shot bolts from the targets and bringing them back up to the wall. He wanted to be everywhere, doing everything himself; instead he had to watch half-trained, half-skilled Eremians doing each job more or less adequately, which was torture. Finally, he decided he'd had enough. If he had to watch one more thread being stripped or cradle-truss warped out of line, he'd go mad. With a tremendous effort he turned his back on the lot of them and walked slowly down the stairs to the street.

  Someone was waiting for him; a tall, broad, bald man with a ferocious grey moustache. 'You Vaatzes?' he asked.

  It was too stupid a question to risk replying to, so he nodded. 'Who're you?'

  'Framea Orudino, sergeant-at-arms to the lesser Ducas,' the bald man replied, puffing his chest out like a frog. 'You wanted fencing lessons. I've been trying to find you all day, but nobody knew where you'd got to.'

  Ziani grinned. 'You found me,' he said. 'Right, let's get to it. What do I have to do?'

  Orudino studied him for a moment, as though he was a consignment of defective timber. 'Follow me,' he said.

  Orudino led him down the inevitable tangle of narrow, messy streets, alleys and snickets until they reached a grey door in a sand-yellow brick wall. To Ziani's surprise, the door didn't open into a beautiful secret garden or a cool, fountain-strewn courtyard. Instead, they were inside a building that reminded him of all the warehouses he'd ever seen. The walls were bare brick, washed with lime. The floor was grey stone flags, recently swept. In one corner was a stout wooden rack, in which he saw about a dozen matching pairs of long, thin swords.

  'Foils,' Orudino explained. 'The point's been blunted and wrapped in twine, so it can't hurt you, unless you get stuck in the eye. But I'm good enough not to hit where I don't want to, and you'll never be good enough to hit me unless I want you to, so there's no problem.'

  Ziani decided he didn't like Sergeant Orudino, but that hardly mattered. 'What comes first?' he asked.

  'We'll get you standing right,' the sergeant said. 'Now then. Over there, see, painted on the floor are two footprints. Put your feet on them, and that's your basic stance.'

  Orudino was bored, making the little speeches he'd made hundreds of times before, plodding through the stages of the lesson like a mule turning a flywheel. That was unfortunate, because Ziani found the whole business completely alien, and needed to have each step explained and demonstrated over and over again. The footwork in particular he found almost impossible to master; it was almost as bad as dancing, and he'd never been able to dance. Maybe he could have managed it if he'd been able to look down and see where he was putting his feet, but the sergeant wouldn't let him, on the grounds that in a real fight he'd need to keep his eyes fixed on the other man's sword-point to the exclusion of everything else. So Ziani stumbled, blundered, tripped over his feet, fell over twice, with nothing to spur him on but his rapidly burgeoning hatred for the loud, pompous, bullying bald man with the bored voice and the supercilious grin. If anything, he loathed his condescending praise on the rare occasions when something went right more than his martyred patience with the bungles and mistakes. He kept himself going by chanting in his head, if this shithead can do it, so can I; and slowly, gracelessly, he tightened up the tolerance, while his arms and legs and wrists and forearms and neck and back screamed pain at him, and the tip of the sergeant's foil stung him like a wasp.

  He learned the four wards (high, side, low, middle); the steps ordinary and extraordinary; the advance, the retreat, the pass, the lunge; the wide and the narrow measure; the counter in time and double time; the disengage, the block, the beat; the mastery of the enemy sword and the slip-thrust, the stop-thrust, the tip-cut and the sidestep riposte in time. He learned to feint and to read feints, to wait and to watch, to move hand and foot together, to keep his kneecap over his toe in the lunge, to fend with his left hand and to close to disarm. Orudino killed him six dozen times, with thrusts to his throat, heart, stomach and groin, with draw-cuts and tip-cuts and the secret cut of the Ducas (a wrap with the false edge to sever the knee-tendon). Every death was a chore to the sergeant, and most of them were disappointments, because a child of twelve should have been able to master the relevant defence by now.

  'You're thrashing about like a landed fish,' the sergeant said, as Ziani lunged at him and missed. 'It's no good if you can't land a thrust where it'll do some good. Come over here, I'll show you.' He led Ziani to the middle of the floor, where a piece of string hung from a rafter. From his finger he pulled a heavy ring, brass with a little silver plate still clinging to it, and tied it to the string. Then, with a mild sigh, he lunged. The tip of his foil passed through the middle of the ring without touching it.

  'Right,' he said sadly. 'You try.'

  Hopeless, of course. A couple of times he managed to swat the string, like a kitten batting at wool. Otherwise he missed outright. The sergeant laughed, took down the ring and replaced it with a small steel hoop about the size of an outstretched hand. 'Come on,' he said, 'you ought to be able to hit that'; but Ziani tried and couldn't. The best he could do was slap into the string, setting the hoop swaying.

  'Don't they practise fencing where you come from, then?' Orudino asked. Ziani shook his head.

  'We aren't allowed to have weapons,' he replied. 'It's against the law'

  The sergeant looked at him with contempt. 'Doesn't stop you picking on the likes of us, though,' he said. 'Well, you aren't at home now. Concentrate. Fix your eyes on where you want to hit, and it should just come naturally.'

  Did it hell. After a long time and a great many attempts, the sergeant stopped him, took down the hoop and said, 'Let's stick to the basic defences for now. Right, high guard, sword-hand in First, watch what I'm doing and step in to block and push away.'

  The defences were slightly better than the attacks, but they still weren't easy. At last, however, he grasped the idea of taking a step back or to the side to keep his distance. Try as he might, however, he couldn't organise himself well enough to counter each attack with a simultaneous attack of his own. One thing at a time, his brain insisted, defend and then attack; but by the time he'd blocked, deflected or avoided, there wasn't time to hit back. There was always another attack on the way, and pretty soon he found himself backed into a corner with nowhere to go.

  'We're just not getting anywhere,' the sergeant said. 'I've been teaching fencing for twenty years, I've taught kids of ten and old men of sixty, and I've never had a complete failure, not till now. Sorry, but I don't think I can help you. Best thing you can do is buy yourself a thick padded coat or a breastplate, and try and stay out of trouble.'

  Ziani leaned against the wall. His legs were weak and shaky from the effort, his elbows and forearms hurt and he had a blinding headache. He hated the sergeant more than anybody he'd ever met. 'Let's give it one more go,' he said. 'Don't try and teach me the whole lot. Let's just concentrate on one or two things.'

  The sergeant shrugged. 'I've got nothing better to do,' he said. 'But I think you're wasting your time. All right, then, let's have a middle guard in Third. No, bring your back foot round more, and don't stick your right hand so far out, not unless you're trying to draw me in on purpose.'

  Slowly, bitterly, with extraordinary effort, Ziani learned to defend from the middle guard. 'It's better than nothing,' the sergeant told him. 'Forget about countering for now, just concentrate on distance. If you aren't there, you can't be hit. Simple as that.'

  The sergeant wanted to leave it at that, but Zian
i refused. 'I want just one thing I can use,' he said. 'Like the hedgehog in the proverb.'

  'I don't know any proverbs about hedgehogs.' The sergeant shrugged. 'All right,' he said, 'we'll try the back-twist. Actually it's a pretty advanced move, but for anybody sparring with you, it'd come as a complete surprise. Now; middle guard in Third, like normal; and when I thrust at you on the straight line, you bring your back foot a long step behind your front foot, till you've almost turned away from me. That takes you right out of the way of my attack, and you can stab me where you like as I go past.'

  To the complete surprise of both of them, Ziani got it almost right on the third attempt. 'It's like I always say,' the sergeant told him, 'if someone can't learn the easy stuff, teach him something difficult instead. You'd be surprised how often it works.'

  So they practised the back-twist many, many times, until Ziani was doing it without thinking. 'It's actually a good one to learn,' the sergeant said, 'because if you get it right, that's the fight over before it starts. It's half a circle instead of a straight line. All right, a couple more times and then I'm calling it a day.'

  It was a glorious relief to get away from him, out of his bare brick box into the open air. Ziani only had a very vague idea of where in the city he was, but he didn't care. He was content to wander, choosing turnings almost at random to see where they led. Almost perversely, he had no trouble finding a way home.

  Cantacusene was in the main gallery, shouting at someone for ruining a whole batch of springs. He waited till he'd finished, then called him over.

  'You know about swords and things,' he said. 'Where's the best place to buy one?'

  Cantacusene frowned. 'Depends,' he said, predictably. 'What do you want?'

  'A side-sword,' Ziani replied, 'or a short rapier, preferably with a bit of an edge. Imported,' he added quickly. 'Nothing flashy, just something simple and sturdy.'

  Cantacusene told him a name, and where to find a particular stall in the market. 'You can say I sent you if you like,' he added. 'She's my second cousin, actually.'

  'Thanks. What was that about a batch of springs, then?'

  The next day, early, he went to the market and found Cantacusene's cousin; a tall, fat woman with a pleated shawl over her red bodice and gown. For some reason, she seemed to think he wanted something very expensive with a swept hilt, fluted pommel and ivory grip; it took him quite some time to convince her otherwise, but he managed it in the end and came away with a short rapier, slightly browned with age, in a battered scabbard. He left it propped against the wall of his tower room and went back to work.

  Not long after midday, a messenger arrived, from Miel Ducas: could Vaatzes come immediately, please. He followed the messenger (he was getting tired of having to be led everywhere, like a blind man) to the Ducas house. Miel Ducas was waiting for him in a small room off the main cloister. He was sitting behind a table covered with maps, letters, lists and schedules, and he looked exhausted.

  'Bad news,' the Ducas said straight away. 'They've bypassed the Barbuda gate-that's here,' he added, jabbing his forefinger at some squiggle on a map, 'and at the rate they're going, they'll be down there in the valley this time day after tomorrow. I'm taking three squadrons of cavalry to give them a bit of a hard time at a place I know, but really that's just to show willing. Fact is, the war's about to start. How ready can you be by then?'

  Ziani shrugged. 'I'm ready now,' he said. 'We've run out of hardening steel and we're nearly out of ordinary iron. I'm still making machines by bodging bits together, but I don't suppose I've got enough material for another full day's production. Really, we're as ready as we'll ever be. I've already got four hundred and fifty scorpions installed and ready; actually, it'd be a bit of a struggle to fit any more in on the wall.'

  'I see,' the Ducas said. 'Is that going to be enough?'

  Ziani smiled. 'No idea,' he said. 'When you're dealing with the Republic, there's no such thing as enough. It's like saying, how many buckets will I need to empty the sea? But,' he went on, as the Ducas scowled at him, 'they're going to need a bloody big army if they don't want to run out of men before we run out of scorpion bolts.'

  That seemed to cheer the Ducas up a little. He sighed, and nodded his head. 'You've done very well,' he said, 'I'm grateful, believe me. If we get out of this ghastly mess in one piece, I'll see to it that you're not forgotten.' He shrugged. 'You know,' he said, 'there's a part of me that still doesn't really believe that all this can be happening. Try as I might, I can't understand why they're doing it. Doesn't make sense, somehow.'

  Ziani smiled wryly. 'That's because you think it's about you,' he said. 'It isn't. It's really an internal matter; Guild politics, that sort of thing. I don't suppose that's any consolation.'

  The Ducas shook his head. 'I don't imagine it'll be much comfort to the poor bastards on the wrong end of your scorpion bolts,' he said. 'Tell me, what on earth possesses them to sign up, anyway? Isn't there any work for them back wherever they come from?'

  'No idea,' Ziani said. 'All I know about the old country is that we came here to get away from them, a long time ago, and now we do a lot of business with them, mostly textiles, farm tools and domestic hardware. The general impression I've got over the years is that they're a practically inexhaustible supply of manpower, but I can't remember them ever getting slaughtered like sheep before. It's possible they may not want to keep coming if that happens.'

  'Well, quite.' The Ducas grinned. 'It's getting so difficult to find good help these days.'

  He didn't seem to want anything else, so Ziani made his excuses and took his leave. He felt a strong urge to look back over his shoulder, but he resisted it. Thanks to the Ducas, he'd learned a valuable lesson about compassion, and its deceptive relationship to love. With every step he took away from the place, he found it easier to bring to mind the fact that it was Duke Orsea who'd taken pity on him, on the day when he'd been dying in the mountains, and that the Ducas had been all in favour of having him quietly killed, or left to die. Not that it mattered, as things had turned out. The Ducas had paid him back many times over. Besides, compassion at first sight is generally like love at first sight; both of them are dangerous instincts, often leading to disaster.

  He turned up the long, wide street whose name he could never remember (it was something to do with horses, not that that helped much) and followed it uphill towards the centre of the city. At the lower crossroads he paused. If he turned right, he could go to his patron Calaphates' house. He hadn't spoken to his benefactor for a long time, let alone sent him any accounts, or a statement of his share of the profits. Calaphates had been kind to him, though largely out of self-interest; he owed him some consideration, the bare minimum required by good manners. Or he could turn left and take the wide boulevard lined with stunted cherry trees that led to the inner wall, and beyond that, the Duke's palace. If he owed a duty to his patrons, he certainly ought to make time to report to Duke Orsea, who'd shown him kindness even though he was an enemy, at a time when anybody would have forgiven him for doing the exact opposite. The thought made him smile, though part of him still regretted all of it, deeply and with true compassion. He went left. At the palace gatehouse he asked to see the chamberlain. After a shorter wait than he'd anticipated, he was seen and granted an interview with the Duke, at noon precisely, the day after tomorrow. It occurred to Ziani that if the Ducas was right, that would be the day before the Mezentine army was due to arrive. Couldn't be better, he decided.

  After he'd seen Vaatzes, Miel Ducas spent an hour going over the plans for the cavalry raid one last agonising time. He was sure there was at least one fatal flaw in his design, probably two or three, and that anybody with a faint trace of residual common sense would be able to spot it, or them, in a heartbeat. It was as though he could hear voices in the next room and knew they were discussing the disastrous failure of the coming raid, and how it had ultimately led to the fall of Eremia, but he couldn't quite make out what they were saying.

 
The same voices haunted him all evening. He took them with him when he went to bed (very early, since he had to be up well before dawn the next day) and they kept him awake until he was at the point where sleep would do him more harm than good. When the footman woke him up with hot water and a light breakfast he felt muzzy and cramped, with a tight feeling at the sides of his head that wanted to be a really nasty headache when it grew up.

  It wasn't a good day for headaches; nor for stomach upsets, but he had one of them too. When he clambered awkwardly on to his horse, well behind schedule, he felt as though some malicious person was twisting his intestines tightly round a stick. Nerves, he promised himself; also he knew for a fact that there couldn't possibly be anything inside him left to come out.

  As was only proper for the Ducas going to war, he wore a middleweight gambeson with mail gussets under a heavyweight coat of plates with full plate arm and leg defences, right down to steel-soled sabatons on his feet. Because he was the commander in chief and therefore under an obligation to keep in touch with what was going on around him, he'd substituted an open sallet for the full great-helm, but someone had failed to check to see whether the Ducas crest (which was essential as a means of identification in the field) would fit the sallet's crest-holder. It didn't, so the sallet had to go back and the great-helm came out instead. Inside it, of course, he could barely see, hear or breathe; so he compromised by giving it to his squire to carry and going bare-headed.